


Unpopular Names and Impossible Loyalties

by Signe (oxoniensis)



Category: Marvel (Movies), X-Men (Movies), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Canon Disabled Character, M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-10
Updated: 2011-08-10
Packaged: 2017-10-22 11:42:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/237652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oxoniensis/pseuds/Signe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"We'll always take different paths, Charles.  That doesn't mean they'll never cross."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unpopular Names and Impossible Loyalties

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Porn Battle XII, prompts: before, after, never, always. Also posted on livejournal, [here](http://oxoniensis.livejournal.com/486364.html). Beta thanks to the lovely nocturnalrites. The title is from Matthew Arnold's description of Oxford University. This was... not the story I meant to write!

  
_"Home of lost causes, and forsaken beliefs, and unpopular names, and impossible loyalties." Matthew Arnold_   


 

There's a road. Two roads. One diverging into two.

You stare ahead.

A hand on your shoulder, a firm, familiar weight. "We'll always take different paths, Charles. That doesn't mean they'll never cross."

At the time, you're not certain that it's any comfort.

Later, it's what you live for.

*

"I want to take you apart," Erik says. He kisses your stomach, stroking fingers through the sparse hair that trails down towards your groin. You're both naked, sprawled on your bed; the afternoon sun makes even pale skin glow with life.

You want his hand on your cock. He teases you instead. You wouldn't have it any other way.

"Ah, that is one of the deep-seated differences between us," you tell him with a smile, and then a gasp as he circles one finger around your hole. Still teasing. He's hard too, his cock firm and heavy between his thighs. You want him inside you. You want all of him. "I want to put you back together," you say instead, because the rest he knows. You sound breathless and desperate, but you don't try to disguise it. You never are anything but honest with each other, at least in all you say. Some things you can't say.

He slips one finger inside you. He has beautiful hands, scarred and calloused and huge.

"I believe the real difference is that I don't believe you need putting back together." He says it sadly, as though you don't think his love is worthy of you. You've never believed that, but until the day he lets you freely into his head again, you won't be able to convince him. You keep trying, anyway. You went to Oxford, after all, the home of lost causes.

"Just nudging in the right direction, is that it?" you ask wryly, because sometimes you're foolish and argumentative, even when there are now two fingers pressing inside you, trying to break you into pieces. Erik has always known how to take you apart, piece by piece.

"No," he says. Definite. He keeps pressing kisses against your belly, but he pulls his fingers out. You bite your lip. You raise a hand to guide his fingers back where you want them, but drop it as you see the quick smile flash across his face; your impatience amuses him.

"You don't want me to change my mind? Join you?" You shake your head in disbelief as you ask the questions. No, not disbelief, because you know he's not lying. Surprise. He's surprised you.

"Do I want us to be together?" he asks as calmly as though you don't both constantly ache with the craving for that one, simple, impossible thing. He rests his head against your thigh. You don't feel it (no warmth or pressure, even though you see your leg settle slightly under him), and some expression must cross your face because he shifts higher where you can feel the touch. He is so very earnest when he continues. "Of course I do. But for you to change your mind would mean you giving up too much of your fundamental faith in humanity. I might think it's a blind faith, and that you're the most intelligent fool I've ever known," he almost laughs, but it's not a happy sound, "but I would hate you to lose that faith. I would hate the world to be so irredeemably bad that you couldn't help but lose that faith."

"You wish you had my faith," you say, slowly. His words are a revelation. "You wish above all that you could believe in good. Even though you think it's what makes me most vulnerable." He's called you naïve and a fool often enough, but he's broadcasting now: fear of what might happen if he ever relaxed his guard and a longing for a world safe enough that he didn't have to feel that fear. It hurts you to know that this is something you can never give him.

"Is it that surprising?" As he asks, you wonder that you never realized it before. You imagine the boy Erik, dragged along a bitterly cold grey street, broken glass littering the ground, nothing but hatred and abuse leveled at him, and still he wanted there to be enough good in mankind to mitigate it.

But there never was. Not enough for the suffering he felt. So faith is a lost cause for him, a striving after the wind. All he can do is feel the very edge of your faith, warm his heart at the embers.

You swallow. "Fuck me," you say, because you both want that, and because the sooner he's fucked you, the sooner he'll lie down beside you and you can hold him and for a little while you can both forget.

*

"It's getting late," he says, looking at the window. He's watched the sun cross from one side of the glass to the other and go out of sight and not stirred in your arms. You haven't spoken, either of you, but you thought _I love you_ loud enough for him to hear.

"You could stay the night," you say, as you always do.

He shakes his head, as he always does. "You and I," he says, "we're not meant to have a happy ending." He's resigned, the sadness back in his eyes. Pulling away from the warmth as though he fears he might get used to it.

You know it's true, that one day your roads will either diverge completely or come crashing together in an explosion that will destroy both of you, that they'll never run side-by-side like you've dreamed, but you're not yet ready to accept it. So you respond with the one truth you know is equally certain. A promise he made to you. One that still has happiness in it to spare for both of you. "But our paths will keep crossing." You smile at him, and he smiles back.

You pull him down to you and seal your promise with a kiss before he gets up and walks away.

You don't speak his name again until the next time your paths cross.


End file.
